Let Them Eat Pie
by TheMacUnleashed
Summary: Tag to 5.15, "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid." Bobby, Sam and Dean move on from the previous night's events.


It was only at the most inappropriate times that the sun shone as brilliantly as it did now. The day that Bobby had buried Karen for the first time (and wouldn't ya know it, it was only a month shy of the thirty-year anniversary) it had been as beautiful as it was now, the unseasonable warmth joining in with the heat that had radiated from the pyre earlier in the morning.

Bobby ran a hand through his no-longer-slicked-back hair and sat back in his wheelchair, resting for a moment. He had dug the grave himself. It hadn't been easy from the chair he was confined to, but he had a hand skilled from all of the times he'd had to unearth things that wouldn't stay dead, and this wasn't something he could trust Sam and Dean with.

Halfway through the process, when he had almost fallen out of the seat twice (there would have been nothing more embarrassing than having to have Dean or Sam haul his ass back up, because even if both of them had the good tact to never mention it again, that wasn't something he was going to forget) and when his hands felt like they were going to start blistering like a girl's he had wondered if he was just being a fool: it was a damned hole in the ground, and there were millions like it all across the country. What difference would it make on the day the world finally ended if he had labored over it for an hour, or if Dean had whipped it up in ten minutes?

But it the end it did make a difference, because this was Karen. This was the grave in which the ashes of his wife would remain, from now until… well, hopefully forever. This place deserved to be prepared with reverence, to be labored over, and while Dean wouldn't do a half-assed job, it still wasn't the same.

The grave was next to his house this time. He wasn't about to shell out his savings for a place in a giant field where the dead hadn't done a good job staying down the first time around; a place he couldn't even easily visit when he wanted to.

Besides, although they hadn't actually talked about it, he had come to the conclusion that Karen probably didn't care much for the cemetery. Her relatives were all buried back in the small town in North Carolina that she'd come from, and it wasn't like there had been anything personal for her back in St. Anthony's. That had just been the most convenient place for him, young, grief-struck and naïve, to bury her.

Carefully, he placed the urn back into the ground and, unceremoniously, scooped the dirt back over it. No use prolonging it.

The hole filled in a lot quicker than it had emptied out, and soon all he had before him in the warm spring sunlight was a pile of recently-disturbed dirt.

He swallowed and murmured, "Bye, Karen," and wheeled his way back into the house.

* * *

"The place looks bad now, but apparently even zombies aren't as messy as Bobby when he had the house to himself for a few years." Dean surveyed the main room of Bobby's house. The living dead hadn't done the place any favors, but it still looked ten times better from the cleaning that Karen had given it than it had before.

"It'll be back to normal before you know it." Sam shook his head. "It is weird, though, seeing it like this. I mean, even when we came here as kids it was always kind of a dump –in the best way possible, I mean," he quickly added. "The years didn't do it any favors, but at least it was consistent."

"Yeah, the shock of seeing the dawn of the dead is nothing compared to being able to walk around Bobby's house and not nearly trip over a bunch of crap. It's like we're walking in a dream again." He went into the kitchen, the only room that they hadn't yet looked over. While Bobby was burying Karen's ashes, or sprinkling them or whatever, he and Sam were seeing how the house had faired in last night's attack. "Well, wouldn't you know it; our zombies apparently only had a taste for people's stomachs."

There in the kitchen, the pies that Karen had baked were still neatly lined up along the countertops. It was like a scene from a Disney movie, all of the desserts plump and perfect, illuminated by the soft, golden sunlight that streamed in through the window. The only thing it was missing was a few forest creatures dancing about to complete the mildly psychedelic scene, or maybe a musical number. Neither would seem that out of place.

"What do we do with them all?" Sam walked further into the kitchen and stopped in front of one. Apple, Dean guessed, and probably a prime example of what the apple pie that everyone was always comparing America to was like.

"What do we do with them? Well, Sammy, I don't know what you're picturing but I'm imagining plates and forks. I'm sure we could bring in some whipped cream too, though, if that's what you want."

"Cut it out. I doubt Bobby's in the mood to have all these… reminders around him, but it seems like such a waste to just dump them in the trash before he finds them."

"We could stow them in the trunk and have ourselves a feast fit for the gods when we get out of here."

"There's a homeless shelter down town, I think. They would probably take them –Dean, stop looking at me like that. We can't steal Bobby's pies for ourselves."

"Dude, did you even taste them? Fine, donate a few if it puts your mind at rest, but we are eating this. Seriously, if anyone's earned themselves some pie, it's us. Hell, we should even give Cas a call –think he's tried pie before? I doubt it."

"What are you boys talkin' about?"

Both of them started slightly as Bobby wheeled his chair into the kitchen.

"We were just talking about…" Sam hesitated, not knowing how to bring up the pies that his zombie-wife had baked without upsetting him.

"Spit it out, Sam. You don't need to be walkin' on eggshells around me. I've gone through all this plenty of times before." Bobby glared and raised an eyebrow at Sam, and then nodded at Dean. "Same goes to you. I'm as damn well fine as I'll ever be."

"Right, Bobby. Of course you are." Sam nodded, somehow managing to not give his words the same patronizing or sarcastic tone that they would have had if Dean had said them. "We were just talking about all of the pies you have left over."

Bobby glanced around his kitchen, seeming to really notice things for the first time, even though he must have been in there since the night before. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, wincing as dirt smeared from his hands to his face. "That sure is a lot of pies."

"Damn right it is. And come on, Bobby, you can't just waste them." Dean resisted the urge to slam his fist down in emphasis. "Pies were meant to be eaten, right?"

"You think I'm disagreeing with you? Get out the plates. I'd better go and wash my hands." Bobby grimaced as he looked at them, dirt-covered and embarrassingly sore from a simple grave-dig. "Well, what are you waiting for? The apocalypse?"

"Sorry." Sam snapped out of whatever he'd been thinking, taking the look of surprise off his face. "Top cabinet on the left, right?"

"You know darn well where they are." Bobby shook his head, exasperated. "I'll be back in a minute. Help yourself to whatever. Not like there isn't plenty to go around." He steered his chair out of the room.

Dean opened a draw and grabbed a fistful of forks and knives, vaguely surprised to realize that Bobby did indeed keep the normal kitchen kind, and not just the stab-the-monsters-with ones. "Sammy, if you say anything about us having to leave right now, so help me God, I will not be forgiving."

"Relax. I'm not going to interrupt something you've been fantasizing about for years." Sam placed the plates down next to the silverware. "Bobby needs us."

"Bobby needs his legs to be working again. We're not going to do that much good. But hey, whatever you're thinking that's keeping you here; I'm not going to complain." Dean picked up the nearest of the pies, suddenly ravenous from the long night they'd had. "This look like cherry to you?"

"That's blueberry." Bobby reentered the kitchen. "Cherry's on the right, and I don't know what's in the middle. Apple, maybe. Get me a slice of that blueberry."

"Can do." Dean cut off a generous portion and handed it off before raising the knife over it again. "You want one, Sammy?"

"Sure." Sammy took his piece with a quiet thanks, and Dean finally got himself his own piece.

Damn, that was good, juicy fruit wallowing in a sugary syrup, all enclosed in a buttery, flaky crust that practically melted in his mouth. Maybe, if the opportunity ever came up he'd ask Bobby if his wife had been a professional baker, because this had to have been the best pie he had ever had, easily.

As the trio stood in the kitchen, silently helping themselves to the sweet, bakery-quality dessert, it was easy to just ignore that soft whisper inside their heads reminding them that a horseman had brought all of this on, and pretend that the apocalypse was eons away.


End file.
